The minister, who had been leading the procession, tentatively approached and peered inside. His eyes widened, and he turned to me, his voice barely above a whisper. “I think this is meant for you.”

With trembling hands, I reached into the coffin and took the letter. It was sealed with a wax stamp — my husband’s personal seal — something he only used for the most important correspondence. My fingers fumbled as I broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

The words were unmistakably in his handwriting, each letter clear and deliberate. As I read, the world around me seemed to fade away, leaving only the voice of my husband speaking to me from beyond the grave.